Every You
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Based on "A Thousand Pieces of You" by Claudia Gray. The "Londonverse's" Marguerite vaguely remembers punching a total stranger. The least she can do is take him out to the event he missed.


Every You

By Laura Schiller

Based on: _A Thousand Pieces of You_

Copyright: Claudia Gray

"You," said the stranger on the holoscreen. "You're – from last night."

_Oh, crap_, Marguerite Caine thought. _What was I thinking?_

It was far from the first time she had asked herself that, but usually her mistakes involved alcohol, boys, and/or breaking some rule of etiquette she wasn't even aware of in front of Aunt Susannah and her entourage. Vid-calling a man she had never met, just because his name appeared in her search history and he appeared to recognize her, was an altogether different brand of risky.

Not that she wouldn't enjoy meeting him, under different circumstances. He was built like a rugby player under that threadbare polo shirt, and his light brown hair had a golden tint to it that caught the light. Even the black eye suited him – marked him out as a fighter, nothing like the spoiled prep school boys in her usual crowd.

Oddly enough, in this white-and-steel bedroom of hers, his holoimage was the only thing that looked real.

Not that it mattered right now what he looked like.

"Paul Markov?"

"That's me." His gray eyes were wary.

He opened his mouth, perhaps to ask a question of his own, but she cut him off: "Do I know you?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Last night I found myself in an empty Tube car," said Paul Markov, in a soft American accent. "On the way back from the ConTech presentation. I don't remember getting there. I'd been beaten up." He gestured to his swollen left eye for evidence. "And the only person nearby was … you."

His eyes flicked from side to side, nervously – fearfully, even. What was he afraid of? Marguerite looked down at her own hand with a horrible, rising suspicion. Her knuckles were bruised. And she only remembered last night in fragments herself.

That was why she'd gone to the trouble of calling this Markov in the first place, so he could help her remember. But not like this.

"What," she snapped. "You think _I _go around starting fights on the Tube like some chav - " _As if I could_, she was about to say, considering the breadth of his shoulders and biceps through the screen.

Then she remembered.

Her fist hitting his face. Another boy tackling him to the ground, wrestling on the floor of the train. Was that - ? It was. The same one she'd brought home from Aunt Susannah's charity gala, the one her aunt still talked about with the most ridiculous simper on her face. She didn't even know his name.

"Oh my God," she murmured, turning away from the screen with one hand to her dizzy head. _How wasted was I? What did I do? How could I forget?_

There was another thing she remembered from that night: a deep disgust with her surroundings and herself. It felt as if some younger, more innocent Marguerite had woken up inside her, horrified by what her older self had become.

"Did you remember something?" asked Paul.

"I … I think I did punch you."

"Why?"

There was no accusation in his voice, which in itself amazed her. If it were her, she'd _demand_ to know what gave a total stranger the right to punch her in the face.

"I don't know." She swallowed hard against an uncomfortable knot in her throat. "See, my friends and I get pretty out of control sometimes. Must've been high as kites … I'm sorry. The only explanation I can come up with is that my … er, date and I mistook you for a stalker. Not that you are one. I mean … "

She expected anger, indignation, even an abrupt end to the call. What she did not expect was for the stranger's calm gray eyes to unfocus thoughtfully, as if seeing right into the truth of that embarrassing moment. Then he nodded – and ducked his head.

"Hmm," he said. "I guess that makes sense."

"Wha – it does?"

"I'm … uh … not the most sociable person. When a girl like you - I … I may have been staring in a way that wasn't appropriate."

His American drawl came out the back of his throat, as if even his vocal cords were embarrassed. To her shock, it was Marguerite's turn to blush. She'd been given hundreds of compliments, but never one like this; the simple fact that he tried to disguise it proved how sincere he was.

"No! God, no. Whatever happened, it can't have been your fault. I'm the one who should apologize, I really am." She held up her bruised hand as evidence. "And listen – you say you went to the ConTech presentation?"

"Uh-huh. I'm a physicist. Only I guess I missed it, and so - "

"So I can take you to the next one."

Her mouth moved before her brain even had time to catch up. What the bloody hell had she just said?

"Excuse me?" said Paul.

But it made perfect sense, she realized now. Those eyes, just the color of a London winter sky, were already brightening.

When was the last time she, Marguerite Caine, had made someone genuinely happy? She thought of her so-called friends braying with drunken laughter at some of her nastier jokes about the badly dressed people walking by; Susannah's smug nod when she managed to get an introduction to the _Suave_ editor's daughter; a random boy's grunt of satisfaction as they fell back on a pile of pillows at the Savoy. There had been those moments, like finding a hat for Susannah to wear at Ascot that framed her face like a turquoise halo, lending dignity to her age for once instead of battling it, and her aunt had smiled in the mirror. But never anything like this.

"Why not?" she shrugged, playing it casual. "My aunt and I have money coming out our ears, not to mention connections. It's the least I can do."

Paul's smile was like that moment in a fashion show, when the curtain rustles back, the spotlights flare up and the first model comes gliding out. It made her heart twist with anticipation. His eyes crinkled, the corners of his mouth stretched outward. She hadn't noticed before how full his lips were for a man's. _This is the beginning, _she thought. _But the beginning of what?_

"That would be amazing," he said solemnly. "Thank you. So much."

_My God, _said that inner voice._ If he looks like that now, how will he look when you've actually _done _something to deserve it?_

"Won't your … date mind?"

"Oh, him. He's nobody."

A faint line of disapproval showed between Paul's eyebrows. It was a phrase she used all the time, but it had never sounded this crass to her before. "Er, I mean, I hardly knew him. He's probably halfway across the Atlantic by now."

"Okay." Was that disapproval in Paul's half-sigh, relief that she was single – or both?

"Call me back, all right?" she said, making a retreat, glad to hear her voice coming out steady and not as shaky as she felt. "I've got to dash."

"I will."

She ended the all, letting the ring suck back the holoimage like a genie into its bottle. Without that glint of golden-brown hair, her room looked colder than ever.

She glanced down at her yellow embroidered bathrobe for courage. Pastels were out this season, and Susannah thought they were silly, but she'd bought this anyway in defiance. She had the oddest idea that Paul Markov would like it. Ridiculous, since she didn't even know him, and what she did know was not encouraging. What would a physicist in a gray shirt care about fashion?

_A girl like you, _he'd said, husky with admiration.

She slipped out of her bathrobe and dove into her closet, ready to arm herself for the battle of another brunch with Susannah's boring friends and their loud, twittery daughters. But in the back of her mind, she was already waiting to see his face again.


End file.
